Anna Louise shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Not selfish, Richard, just human. You’ve spent too long thinking of yourself as some larger-than-life hero, living recklessly and challenging fate. The fact of the matter is, though, that you’re simply human, just like the rest of us.”
Richard wondered what Anna Louise with her lofty talk and gentle ways would say if she realized exactly how human he felt right this minute with her in his arms and what a struggle he was going to have letting her go.
* * *
Two weeks later, that rare, special moment of intimacy with Anna Louise and his own fears for Maisey’s health had practically faded from Richard’s memory. His grandmother’s returning vitality had wiped away his panic and determination had quieted any thoughts of Anna Louise.
Well, practically any thoughts. She still popped into his head at the most inconvenient times, taunting him with memories of her warmth and generosity of spirit. No question about it, Anna Louise lived the kind of life she preached about. There was no room in that life for a renegade journalist who was filled with bitterness.
Or so he told himself time and again when temptation seemed about to get the better of him.
“You’re not dressed,” Maisey said just then as she came into the kitchen where Richard was sitting in his favorite chair by the fire.
He glanced up from the new book on foreign policy that had come in the morning mail. It had been sent by his boss with a curt note suggesting he immerse himself in research for his next assignment “assuming you expect to get back to work this century.” He hadn’t read a word of the thick tome in the past hour. That alone was a testament to the way his priorities had shifted in the past few months.
“Dressed for what?” he said.
“Christmas Eve service.” She frowned at him. “Don’t look at me that way, young man. I’ve been going to this service since I was a girl and I don’t intend to stop now.”
“Maisey, you’ve been in bed for the past two weeks. It’s too blasted cold for you to be traipsing around the countryside. You’ll catch pneumonia.” It was not an idle worry, given her recent state of health. He’d seen a far younger, stronger woman succumb in weather just like this.
“We’re driving five minutes in a car with heat you keep turned up like an old blast furnace. I’ll be fine.” She regarded him slyly. “Of course, if you insist on staying here, I’ll have to walk. It’s too late to call one of the neighbors to pick me up.”
Richard sighed in resignation. “Give me ten minutes,” he said, and reluctantly went to put on a suit.
As he changed clothes, he thought about the way he’d spent the previous Christmas. He’d been holed up in a hotel with a dozen other journalists, listening to the shelling that hadn’t let up for the holiday. Supplies were scarce, but a British reporter who’d recently arrived had brought along a fresh supply of Scotch whiskey. The overall mood was increasingly mellow, but hardly filled with holiday cheer.
Then an Italian correspondent had gotten word that a church in town was holding a Christmas Eve service despite the dangerous chaos in the streets. They had bundled up, then traipsed on foot over the icy roads to report on the bravery and determination of people who refused to let a war keep them from worshiping on this holiest of nights.
He could remember distinctly the sharp bite of the wind, the achingly cold dampness that had penetrated through layers of wool, then the faint, beckoning flicker of candlelight in the windows of the ancient church. Even more clearly, he remembered the constant rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire.
To his astonishment, the pews had been filled. The scent of evergreens and incense had mingled in air that was almost as cold indoors as it had been outside. Voices rose in harmony over unfamiliar prayers in a language he barely understood.
He recalled with vivid clarity his sense that the prayers were wasted. Rather than seeing the poignancy and hope in the church that night, he had thought only of the folly. The sense that those suffering such terrible hardships were placing their faith in an uncaring God had never seemed clearer.
Discovering in the morning that half a dozen people, two of them children, had been killed on their way home from that service solidified his sense that prayers were useless against insanity. That conviction had never left him.
Tonight, though, he pushed aside his own cynicism as a gift to Maisey. Going to this service was important to her and he could not let her down. With each passing day he had grown more aware of her increasing frailty. There was no way to tell how many more Christmases she might have. If a church service brought her comfort, then he owed it to her not to spoil that.
Outside, the clear sky looked as if diamonds had been scattered across it. The moon cast streams of silver across the landscape. Not a single sound disrupted the utter stillness. The quiet, which should have soothed, instead, seemed almost unnatural after years of spending Christmas in places where the chilling sound of gunfire was more prevalent than that of joyous carols. Even when an official truce had been called, there were always those who violated it.
Tonight, though, in this place, the peace was real, the silence unbroken. His heart skipped a beat when he spotted Anna Louise greeting the arrivals on the steps of the church. Her cheeks were pink from the brisk night air and her eyes were bright with an excitement that stirred a matching sense of anticipation in him. A warm smile spread across her face at the sight of Maisey, then faded. Worry puckered her forehead.
“Should you be out of bed?” she
